


Warmth

by gildedfrost



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Christmas, Drama, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Trans Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Trans Male Character, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:02:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21976261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildedfrost/pseuds/gildedfrost
Summary: Vampires. Of all the things Jeffrey could have come up with, it’s vampires.They’re not real, Hank tells himself, and he goes on a normal date with his very-much-alive boyfriend and tries to forget the case.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 25
Kudos: 114
Collections: New ERA Discord: Winter Big Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Art by [chromaberrant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chromaberrant)  
> Written for the [New ERA DBH server](https://discord.gg/2EKAAz3) winter big bang for the theme "Finding Home"

Tinny Christmas music echoes throughout the store, almost devoid of customers. Connor’s only company on the floor is the tree beside his register--a tiny fir with glittery baubles hanging from it--and a customer with bags under their eyes intently looking through the cold medicines. Connor taps his fingers on the counter half-heartedly in time with the music, looking around with glazed eyes at the merchandise in between glances at his watch. The endcaps visible from this angle all have seasonal toys or foods, and even the makeup section has a selection of winter and Christmas products. He’s still waffling on a green-and-gold eyeshadow palette they got in two weeks ago; he wants it, but he barely has anything in his wardrobe that would match.

The customer checks out shortly, paying with a swipe of their card. “Thank you for shopping with us, have a nice night,” Connor says, putting on a tired smile. The customer takes their bag and leaves, looking very much like they’re not going to have a nice day at all. Given that it’s almost four in the morning and they bought three different kinds of cold medicine, he thinks that’s a fair bet. He drops his smile the moment the customer leaves.

Once the clock hits four, he logs out of the till and heads toward the back, following the delectable scent wafting towards the front of the store. The morning’s first batch of donuts smells fantastic, and as he gets closer, he can hear the manager humming to himself, something out of sync with the radio.

Connor stops in the kitchen to find two dozen donuts already decorated and the third dozen waiting for the glaze to dry. “Need any help?”

“No, I’ll be fine,” Luther says from where he’s cleaning off one of the counters. He’s wearing an apron featuring cutesy drawings of desserts, something his daughter got for him. “Lin should be here any minute now. Would you like a donut?”

“No, thanks.” Luther always makes sure to offer him some, and Connor always declines. “I appreciate the offer.”

Luther nods, pulling out a fresh set of gloves and glancing at Connor. “Are you alright? You look like death.”

“That happens when you’re dead,” he grouses. He winces at his own words and holds up a hand in apology. “Sorry. The music’s giving me a headache.”

“Dehydration can do that too,” Luther says, and Connor bites back a groan. He knows he gets grouchy when he’s thirsty, and his manager always notices. “Make sure you take care of yourself.”

“I promise I’ll be more amiable when I get back,” Connor says. “I’ll see you Sunday.”

“Take care.”

Connor clocks out and exits just as Lin arrives, passing by her on his way out with a brief exchange of hellos, and then he’s alone, taking hushed steps out into the fresh snow.

It’s quiet. The store sits at the edge of silence, the snow muffling all the sounds of the street while the late hour keeps the city sleepy. The lights from the streetlights and the store make the snow sparkle in hues of blue and white, glittering around him with every step he takes. There’s a spot of green and red to the side where the snow on the bushes reflects the lights from inside the store. The soft padding of fresh snow on the walkway gives way to the mushy salt and slush in the parking lot, the mix crunching and sloshing underfoot.

The drive home is devoid of traffic and, luckily, the roads haven’t iced over. He’s looking forward to sitting down, grabbing a drink, and watching some TV show until dawn, when he can crash and quit thinking for nine hours. He might even get the chance to text Hank before the other man heads to work, if their waking hours overlap for an hour or so..

When he opens the door to his apartment, he’s got company.

Nines, North, and Markus are crowded around the dining table in his apartment, a Monopoly board between them. Nines is expected, given that he lives here, but Connor wasn’t aware they’d have company tonight. Based on the distribution of the fake money, it looks like Nines is winning.

“Hey,” Connor says. He takes off his black scarf and coat at the door. “Did I miss something?”

“You can play banker,” Markus says without taking his eyes off the board. “It’s late for a new player.”

“Thanks.” Connor opens the fridge and grabs a bag out of the cooler tucked inside, which he then pierces with a metal straw. “I still think we should padlock the refrigerator,” he says before drinking.

The taste is rich and thick and he immediately feels relief washing over him. It will take another few hours for the effects to sink in and for his fatigue to fade--it’s been a week since he last fed, leaving him tired and thirsty--but it takes the edge off and soothes the worst of his stress. It’s thicker and colder than it should be, like a cold porridge (a comparison that Connor defends, given that he likes hot porridge, but which his other brother, Silas, loudly disagrees with), but the group of them swore off live feeding years ago.

“And I still think that makes it look sketchy,” Nines says. “What happens if you invite a human over and they notice a lock?”

“Then don’t invite humans,” North says, sorting a disorganized pile of her money. “Problem solved.”

“Does your apartment ever get inspected?” Markus asks.

“Probably.” Connor licks his lips impulsively, feeling an ache in his teeth that makes him want to bite something. “Explaining a lock is easier than explaining away bags of blood. If someone comes over and wants to grab a beer...”

“Don’t invite your boyfriend,” Nines says, rolling the dice. “Tell him you live with your brothers and it would be awkward. Tell him there’s, I don’t know, some science experiment in the cooler. Problem solved.”

“Hank’s not my boyfriend.”

“You’ve kissed before, right?”

Connor can’t help his grin. “That doesn’t mean we’re dating.”

“It doesn’t mean you’re not,” North points out, finally looking up from the game. “You shouldn’t get involved. He might not be a hunter, but you don’t know how much he can be trusted.”

“I’m aware of the risks, okay? He’s a good man. So, any reason you’re both here? Special occasion? Sabotaging my plans to do nothing?” Connor takes the last seat at the table and resumes sipping his drink. He idly wonders what Hank might think of him drinking blood, but instead of shock or outrage, his mind supplies him with jokes and terrible puns and the image of Hank’s cheeky grin. Maybe he isn’t taking this as seriously as he should.

“Logistics.” Markus leans back in his seat. “Kamski wanted to invite us to a Christmas gathering. I declined, of course. You know he just wants us bound to his coven again. Anyway, it got me thinking about what we’d need to build our own coven up. A shared house, networking, resources. More than just living separately and praying Simon doesn’t get caught stealing blood bags.”

“All of us going to and from a house would be suspicious,” Nines says. “And frustrating. Do you have brothers, Markus?”

“I had one. I also lived in the same house as the three of you,” Markus says, pointing between the two triplets present, “and you’re still managing together.”

“It;s a temporary arrangement,” Nines insists.

“We wouldn’t need to all live there, but I don’t know if we need a house for a coven as small as ours,” North says. “We’re not turning anyone. Kamski makes people afraid to leave. There aren’t a lot of loners.”

“What if those resources are all we need to draw others in?” Markus says. “What if that would lead some to leave Kamski and join us?”

“I don’t see much point to growing our coven. We’d get pulled into politics and put into danger.”

“The others kill people, North.”

“Humans.” She says the word with a sneer, but her tone softens, turning somber. “They kill humans. Innocents, maybe, but don’t forget about the hunters and keeping our secret. We need to put ourselves first.”

“Like I said earlier, we need the whole coven to meet for this,” Nines says, neatening his piles of Monopoly money. “Nothing’s getting decided overnight.”

There’s a sucking sound as Connor reaches the end of his bag, chasing after the last few drops noisily, and he hates to admit he underestimated how much he needed. “What are our supplies like?” he asks quietly when the conversation lulls.

North claps him on the arm. “Go grab another. We’re working on getting Josh a job at a blood bank so everything’s not on Simon.”

“Things are still tight, aren’t they?”

“You’ve gone a week,” she says sternly. “Get seconds or I’ll do it for you.”

“Fine, I get it.” Connor slips the straw out of the bag and tosses the plastic in the biohazard bin tucked under the sink. He’s been trying to ration himself, but he knows what will happen if he doesn’t feed regularly. He won’t die from malnutrition, but he needs blood in order to tolerate sunlight and manage his odd hours, staying up so he can see both the day and the night. It’s easier in the winter, but he wants to see Hank and to spend more of his free time awake. Pain, blindness, and fatigue are manageable, but he knows it’s getting rough when he can’t pass by a living being without noticing their heartbeat.

Of all the things that could happen, he doesn’t want to hurt Hank.

He grabs another bag and shuts the fridge.  
  


* * *

  
“What do you make of it?” Chris asks, following Hank out of the unassuming house at the end of the cul-de-sac. It’s surrounded by holographic police tape and the lights from cruisers bounce off the peeling white paint of the building.

A double homicide. The couple was slaughtered. There’s no other way to put it: Throats ripped out, gashes on their bellies, and--the freakish icing on the cake--wooden stakes through the heart. Stranger yet, there’s very little blood at the scene for all the carnage, and Hank would be lying if he said he didn’t think they’d been drained somehow.

“It’s fucked up,” Hank declares, shoving his hands in the threadbare pockets of his coat. He knows the neighbors are peeking out at them, one even standing on their doorstep with coffee in their hand and scarf on their neck. Chris and forensics got here a couple hours ago sometime before dawn, but now they’ve reached standard waking hours and the bus has already stopped by to pick up children for school. “Whoever killed them was pissed. I’d say they either held a grudge or wanted to make an example of them. This level of mutilation isn’t normal.”

“I gathered that much. Forensics is running the prints now. I’ll start…” Chris trails off, turning his gaze to a police vehicle pulling up to the curb.

Captain Allen steps out.

“What the hell?” Hank mutters. Louder, once Allen is within earshot, he says, “What’s brought you all the way out here? This isn’t usually your kind of thing.”

“Special request.” Allen stops beside them, looking towards the house. “One of my team knows this killer’s signature. Captain Fowler called me in the minute he saw the crime scene photos. I’m here to manage things until she shows up.”

Hank shares a look with Chris. “I mean, we’ve got it pretty handled. We haven’t questioned the neighbors yet, but we’ll take the morning to look around some more.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but you’re off the case. Both of you. Captain Fowler’s orders.”

“Bullshit!”

“Lieutenant.” Allen gives him a stern look. “Please. Take it up with Captain Fowler. I’ve already told him he should have you managing these cases so he’s got someone in his office who’s able to do so.” With that, he walks past the two of them and enters the house.

Hank shakes his head. “Can you believe that guy?”

“Captain’s orders.” Chris sighs. “Back to the precinct?”

“Yep. I’ve got some words for Jeffrey.”  
  


* * *

  
Hank’s barely closed the door to Jeffrey’s office before he’s being shushed.

“Jeffrey, what in the hell--”

“Shush.”

“No, look, I’m fully capable of--”

“Hank.”

“What’s wrong that you don’t think--”

“Shut the hell up and sit your ass down, Hank!” Jeffrey says, putting both hands firmly down on his desk and glaring at Hank.

Hank huffs and takes a seat, crossing his arms flippantly. “You gave Allen my case.”

“I gave Johnson your case,” Jeffrey corrects, “under Allen’s command. She’s the only one qualified for it.”

Hank meets his glare evenly. “Then what’s my goddamn rank for? She’s SWAT! She’s not even a detective!”

“I’m going to be honest with you, Hank. I didn’t think this would be a big problem for Central. I figured leave it to the ones who know already, and if anything this bad came my way, I’d write it off to them or contact someone.” Jeffrey brings one hand up to his forehead. “I need you to take me seriously when I tell you about this. It’s going to sound completely ludicrous, but I’m not pulling your leg, I swear.”

“This better be fucking good. Alright then, shoot.” Hank leans back, watching expectantly.

“You saw the bodies. Very little blood, right?”

“They were drained, weren’t they?”

“No. They didn’t have that much blood to begin with. A couple of pints, maybe. Whoever killed them got in, murdered the hell out of them, then got out. No blood-stealing or whatever. They’re vampires, Hank.”

“Vampires.” Hank snorts. “Come on.”

“Like it or not, vampires count among the city’s citizens. I don’t know what the hell they do to keep their IDs up to date or anything else that gets around the fact that they’re creepy immortal beings, and I don’t care. I know as much as I need to know, and part of that is that they self-police. If one of their own dies or goes rogue, one of their covens will manage it. Keeps their existence quiet.”

Hank nods slowly. “How much of a drunk do you think I am?” he asks, keeping his voice level. “Or is this some kind of fucked up metaphor?”

Jeffrey looks towards the ceiling for a couple of seconds before facing Hank again. “I don’t know of any covens located in our precinct, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any, just that they’re small. The ones that have some influence here are the Kamski, Stern, and Andronikov covens. Kamski and Stern are allies; if we need to get in touch, Chloe’s our contact. The Andronikovs keep their heads down and don’t like talking much. All of them are pains in the ass.”

“Let’s say I believed you,” Hank says, sounding very much like he doesn’t believe a word. “What then?”

“Then you can be the one making phone calls the Chloe and whoever else whenever shit like this happens. You find out which covens the dead and the perpetrator belong to, you get in touch, you fill out the paperwork, and you get out in the field to work this shit so we don’t have Johnson over here doing it for us.”

Hank scratches his chin. “Why Johnson?”

“She’s the only vamp on the force. Ex-Andronikov; she refuses to talk to her old coven for any reason, meaning someone else needs to mediate if they’re involved. Tenth precinct has more vamps than we do, so she works there.”

“I’m still not buying it.” Hank shrugs with his palms upright. “It’s daylight. Wouldn’t she, I don’t know, burn or something?”

“You’ve seen her,” Jeffrey says. “Sunglasses and a cap year-round. UV umbrella in summer. She works nights most of the time.”

“So she’s got sensitive eyes and skin.”

“Look, Hank.” Jeffrey sighs. “I know it sounds like some sort of fairy tale nonsense. Think it over. Take a day or two off if you need to. Text me with any questions you’ve got and I’ll try to answer them. Just try to believe me on this one, okay? And you can’t talk to anyone about this who doesn’t already know. That’s an order.”

Hank scoffs. “You’re asking me to believe in some fantasy.”

“It’s not like I can show and tell here.”

“Right. Christ. You really sound like you believe it.”

“Hank.” Jeffrey glances at the clock. It’s still morning. “Take a half day. See me tomorrow and tell me what you need to know. Even if you don’t believe me, I need you to at least think through this. Think about what I’ve said.”

Hank bites his tongue. “Okay,” he says, and he’s pretty sure he should be concerned about the captain even if they’re not close anymore, because this is beyond ridiculous. “I’ll think about it.”

“Thanks.” Jeffrey lets out a breath and looks at his screen, shaking his head. “You’re dismissed.”

Hank returns to his desk, wondering what the hell he’s going to get done before lunch with all this stuck in his head, and decides it’s a grand total of nothing.

He grabs his coat and leaves.

* * *

Connor wakes up to the sound of his phone ringing. He sits up, drowsy and disoriented, and pushes back his sleeping mask, immediately groaning. Of course it’s daytime, why would anyone deign to call him at a reasonable hour?

It’s winter, he reminds himself, and the curtains are shut closed. Low sunlight. His eyes will adjust momentarily, and after drinking last night, the sunlight won’t even make him ache all over.

He allows himself to pout for a moment longer, upset about the loss of sleep (or what counts for sleep, at least) and the misfortune of waking during the day, before fumbling with his phone to answer it, pulling the mask back down over his eyes. “Hello?” he says, scooting back and adjusting his pillow so he can sit upright, then pulling the blankets up to his chest.

“Hey. I hope I didn’t catch you sleeping,” Hank says, and Connor can’t help the smile that blooms on his face.

“I don’t care. What’s up?” He grudgingly pulls off the mask and checks the time on his phone: one in the afternoon. “Are you at lunch?”

“I’m off for the rest of the day. Want to get a coffee? If you don’t mind, I mean. I know it’s early for you, but...”

“Sure. Yeah. I’m good for coffee.” Connor frowns, not sure what it is about Hank’s voice, but something seems off. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, no, everything’s fine. Work’s just getting to me, you know? I thought I could use some normalcy.”

Connor chuckles. Coffee dates with Hank are part of his new normal and he’s fond of them despite the interruption to his daily seclusion. “I know the feeling. Where should we meet?”

“I can pick you up, if you want. I’m already in the area.”

“That works. I’ll meet you outside in fifteen.”

“See you then.”

Connor hurries through his waking routine, washing his face and making sure his hair is all in order, and grabbing a clean binder from his closet. He looks much less tired and more put-together than he did last night, and his skin looks so much warmer, possessing a vibrancy he usually lacks nowadays. He checks the fridge--still in working order--and makes sure to leave a note on the table to say that he’s out. He and his brothers usually wake around the same time at sunset, seeing each other for a little bit before any of them head out, and the whole coven’s gotten into a habit of checking in on each other often in case anything happens, whether by paper note or group chat message. They don’t expect Kamski to retaliate for their effective desertion, but better to be on guard than let one of their own get hurt.

He grabs his sunglasses, scarf, and leather jacket, and heads out the door.

Hank’s waiting for him when he gets outside and Connor can’t get in the car quickly enough. He smiles brightly at Hank from the passenger seat. “Hey,” he says, getting comfortable in the seat. The car’s warm; the cold might not affect him very much and isn’t even uncomfortable, but he could never get enough of feeling warm. “How are you?”

“Not sure.” Hank shifts into drive. His face is tense and he looks almost as worn as his car and coat, a stark contrast to the relaxed appearance he prefers to put on. “The place on third alright?”

“Yeah. I’d like that.” Connor watches Hank while they drive. “Did something happen?”

“Kind of, not really, confidential work shit that I can’t talk about. It sucks. I’m trying not to be in a bad mood.” Hank gives a forced smile. “It’s not working so far, but I don’t know. Maybe being around my favorite person might help.”

Connor looks in the back seat, then at Hank with his eyebrows raised. “Why? Are we picking up Sumo on the way?”

Hank laughs. “Sure, just as soon as he learns how to order his own coffee.”

“Well, I’m happy to be with my favorite human person, too, even if he woke me up. I don’t have work tonight, at least.”

“Favorite human person,” Hank mumbles, losing his smile. “Sorry about that, anyway. I know you keep odd hours.”

“We can’t all work the graveyard shift.”

The cafe is a cozy little place with a fireplace in the corner and a small, decorated Christmas tree. They don’t play Christmas music over the speakers, keeping to their usual quiet instrumental tracks, which Connor’s keenly grateful for right now. He’s not sure he wouldn’t turn right around if he had to listen to one more Christmas song this week.

Hank gets himself a caramel macchiato and Connor orders a peppermint mocha. His body might hate him for it, being no longer accustomed to any part of a standard human diet, but that’s future Connor’s problem.

“How’ve you been?” Hank asks once they’re situated at one of the window tables. Connor takes off his sunglasses and tucks them into his front pocket. “You look good.”

“I feel great,” Connor says, and he’s surprised to realize it’s true. He’s energetic in a way he hasn’t been for a while. “Work’s going fine, just boring as usual. Oh, and my friend Markus got a pet cat last week.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket to find a picture. “Her name’s Lily and she’s so soft.”

“Aw, she’s cute,” Hank says, looking at a photo of the white cat curled up in a cardboard box. “How old is she?”

“Four years. He got her from a shelter.” Connor smiles down at the phone before locking it again. “She’s still shy so I haven’t had the chance to see her much.”

“She’ll warm up to you. You’re like her bff’s bff, she’s gotta love you.” Hank sips at his drink. “You got any plans for Christmas?”

Connor gulps down some of his own, savoring the taste. “No,” he says. “We used to attend parties thrown by our cousins, but not for the past few years. It feels too stuffy sometimes, like you need to act a certain way and speaking with anyone else is a performance. My brothers and I aren’t invested in the holiday. I wouldn’t even know what to gift them at this point. What about you?”

Hank shakes his head. “Not since… you know. I go to the work party, but that’s it. I haven’t had anyone to celebrate with.”

Connor taps Hank’s foot with his. “We could spend the day together.” He looks at Hank hopefully. It’s been a long time since he felt anything close to Christmas excitement. “Just us and Sumo. We could watch some movies, or walk around and see all the decorations. No awkward family business.”

“I dunno. Kind of interrupts my plans to sit around feeling sorry for myself.”

“What a shame. However will you cope?”

Hank laughs. “It’s a date, then. We’ll cross our fingers and hope it snows.”

“Please, Hank. It’s not Christmas if it’s not sixty and sunny out.”

Hank raises a finger in the air. “The forecast said it’s gonna be twenty.”

“Fine. Maybe we’ll see a flake or two.” Connor leans forward and brushes his fingers against Hank’s hand, slowly taking hold of him. “It’s a date.”

“Yeah.” Hank’s smile softens. “Hey, Connor. Are we dating?”

“I think so. We can call it that. Why?”

Hank brings Connor’s hand up to his lips and kisses it gently. “Because I’d love to spend Christmas with my boyfriend.”

Connor’s breath catches. He’s not sure if he’s blushing--if he even can blush--but it certainly feels like he is. “So would I,” he says, running his thumb along Hank’s fingers.

* * *

That evening finds Hank pottering about in the kitchen with Connor fast asleep on his couch, tuckered out after taking Sumo for a long walk and his shift the previous night. It stirs something tender inside Hank to see him out like that, all the stress and tiredness washed away while he sleeps like a rock under the softest blanket Hank owns. It’s not the first time he’s crashed here and surely won’t be the last, and Hank’s happy enough to let him get some shut-eye while he’s making his own dinner. It was a little awkward the first couple of times--Sumo got overly concerned whenever Connor fell asleep--but every couple of weeks they’ll hang out for an afternoon and Connor will nap until evening.

It’s nice. It’s normal. It makes everything from this morning feel like a distant memory that Hank can just forget.

Vampires. Of all the things Jeffrey could have come up with, it’s vampires.

He hates that it would make sense for this crime scene. Wooden stakes, check. Not a lot of blood, check. The carpet should have been drenched in blood, but it’s just like their bodies were dry. They were just limp, no signs of rigor mortis that he can recall and no stench of rot. He tries to recall other details, like what their teeth may have looked like, but he can’t.

It’s ludicrous. He’s got no reason to think any of it could possibly be real, but now he can’t stop his mind from running down that track. With a frustrated sigh, he pushes aside the half-chopped vegetables and sets his knife on the board, moving to grab a drink.

Hank sits down on the seat adjacent to Connor with a can of beer. He takes a few swigs and watches him sleep, Sumo resting on the floor beneath Connor. Part of him can’t believe he got so lucky to have Connor in his life like this. A couple late-night trips to the convenience store and now they’re here, together. Dating.

It doesn’t matter what they call it. It doesn’t feel so much like dating as it does having a best friend that he happens to be falling in love with, and maybe that’s what dating should be after all, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel like any dating he’s done before.

“You’re taking good care of him, huh, Sumo?” Hank says quietly, smiling at the dog. Sumo looks up at him with those big eyes of his and shifts his tail, not quite wagging it. “Good boy.”

Hank thinks he’s reached the polite threshold of not-quite-watching his sleeping boyfriend after half his beer is gone, but as he’s about to stand, he realizes something is off.

It takes another half-minute to realize that Connor’s not breathing. In fact, he hasn’t moved at all as long as Hank’s been sitting here.

“Shit,” Hank whispers, shoving his drink onto the coffee table and crossing the few steps to the couch, kneeling right beside Connor’s head. Sumo perks up, curious. “Connor? Connor, wake up,” Hank says, putting two fingers to Connor’s neck. He holds his breath and counts to ten.

No pulse.

“Connor!” He pats Connor’s cheek. Not hard enough to be a slap, but enough that he should feel it. “Hey, Connor!”

His head’s spinning. He doesn’t know what to do. Just a minute ago the world was fine. He doesn’t know how he could have possibly missed this. What happened? What’s wrong with Connor? Was it something he did? Did Connor have some allergic reaction or heart attack while Hank wasn’t looking? Was he in pain? Did he--

“Hank.”

Hank blinks, clearing his watery vision and causing hot tears to roll down his face.

Connor’s holding his face with one hand, the other propping himself up on the arm of the couch. His brows are furrowed and he’s leaning forward. “What’s wrong?” he asks, voice soft. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”

Hank gawks at him. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbles, pulling Connor into a hug, his own head resting against Connor’s chest. “I should be asking you that.”

“I’m fine.” Connor threads his fingers through Hank’s hair, stroking slowly. “But I’m worried about you. What’s going on?”

“I think I’m having one of those days.” Hank stays there with Connor’s hands carding through his hair, feeling at home in his arms.

“Will you tell me about it?”

“I think you should get tested for sleep apnea,” Hank says. It seems like a reasonable thing to say. That’s why people stop breathing in their sleep. Not vampirism. “You weren’t breathing.”

Connor kisses the top of Hank’s head. “There’s nothing to worry about, okay? I’m fine. I’m right here.”

Hank can’t help how relieved he feels regardless of whatever Connor’s medical condition may be. “You really should. You scared me for a minute there.”

“If it makes you feel better, I promise I’ll go get tested.”

“Thank you.” Hank hugs him tighter, listening for his heartbeat, seeking that final reassurance.

Minutes pass by with the two of them holding each other. Connor’s still moving and warm in his arms, still very much alive, but Hank slowly realizes that he’s not going to find what he’s after.

Connor doesn’t have a heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Fullsize image](https://i.imgur.com/1WlCcbo.png)
> 
> Fun fact: I wrote this chapter weeks ago--when it was snowing outside--and Christmas yesterday actually turned out to be 60 and sunny.
> 
> Next chapter will be posted New Year's Eve!


	2. Chapter 2

Hank makes sure to get his ass to work on time the next day. He sets three alarms and vows not to snooze through them, even packing lunch and setting up coffee the night before so he doesn’t waste time in the morning.

He doesn’t know what to think anymore. Connor left last night without falling back asleep, saying he didn’t want to impose further, leaving him torn between missing Connor’s presence and feeling relieved at having the space to think. Everything around him feels unreal now, from the smell of coffee to the snowflakes drifting inside when he opens the door for Sumo.

Connor has a night shift. That doesn’t make him a vampire. Sometimes his teeth catch on Hank’s lip, and that’s not really weird, either. He eats and drinks normal human food, which tends to point towards being alive. His sensitive eyes mean he needs to wear sunglasses, and he doesn’t burn or sparkle in the sun.

 _Sparkle._ Hank scoffs at himself for the thought. “Of course they don’t fucking sparkle,” he grumbles to himself as he steps out the door. Not a single person around him has ever sparkled without also smelling like a Lush store or being half-naked. Not that he’d mind seeing Connor like that, but--well. He shouldn’t go down that path right now.

He shakes his head. It’s not a good time for his mind to drift, especially with how many directions it’s trying to go right now. He needs to focus if he’s going to make it through the day. He’s got his coffee and lunch, he let Sumo out and fed him, and he’s got both shoes and his wallet. Today’s going to go just fine.

For once, Hank makes it to work early, stepping into the building half an hour before his scheduled start (and a couple hours before he typically comes in, though he’s been doing better, mostly because being with Connor makes him feel like he needs to be a more responsible person). He drops his lunchbox at his desk, smoothes the front of his shirt, slips into Jeffrey’s office, and shuts the door with a _click._

“Tell me about vampires.”

Jeffrey finishes signing a paper before he looks up at Hank. “Sit.”

Hank grabs a chair, leans back in it, and crosses one leg over the other, taking a slow drink from his coffee. “C’mon, Jeffrey. Tell me about our undead comrades. What’re they like? Are they out to eat us? Is their skin hard as stone? Do they have an undying rivalry with werewolves?”

The sigh Jeffrey gives is one Hank’s heard too many times over the years. “We’re not starting on werewolves,” he says, and Hank barks out a laugh.

“You’re joking, right?”

“No, Hank. I’m not joking about any of this. None of this is a goddamn joke!”

The smile fades from Hank’s face. “Werewolves, too?”

“Are you going to start believing me, Hank? Or are you going to keep on pulling your bullshit?”

Hank takes another sip to keep himself from snapping back at Jeffrey and wishes he’d spiked his coffee today. “The werewolf thing was a joke. I didn’t actually expect that one. I just want to know what vampires are like, outside of wearing sunglasses all day. Like, can they eat?”

“You don’t sound very serious about this,” Jeffrey says, looking unimpressed. It’s earlier than they usually talk in a given day, and Hank’s sure his old friend needs at least one cup in him before dealing with any of Hank’s particular brand of frustrating.

Hank’s come to regret his behavior these past few years. He has more than enough reason to be a mess, between the grief and depression, but he should have started pulling himself together long before now. It’s shameful that it’s taken him this much time and a romance to get started, but now that he has, he needs to earn back Jeffrey’s trust and repay all the favors he’s gotten throughout the years.

“I’m listening,” Hank insists. “I’m asking questions. The mirror thing, that’s fake, right?”

“Yes, the mirror thing’s fake. No, I don’t think they eat or drink, but I wouldn’t know, I’m not buddies with them. I don’t exactly know a lot of them, and I definitely don’t ask them questions about how their bodies work.”

“Okay, that’s fair. Do they need to breathe? Do they have a heartbeat?” Hank pauses. “Do animals have a sixth sense for them?”

“They’re dead. Undead, but you get my point; they don’t need to breathe or anything. Playing dead is their most obnoxious party trick.” Jeffrey shakes his head. “I don’t know about the animal thing. Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. What’d you do last night, look up everything you could find on vampires?”

Hank tilts his travel mug, letting the liquid slosh slowly inside it. He glances out the glass walls at the early birds going about their business, then uncrosses his legs and leans forward. “You said you know a few of them. Covens, contacts, a bit of their politics. It’s probably a bit out there, but I want to know about a guy. You ever heard the name Arkait?” It’s a gamble, putting Connor’s last name out there. Chances are he’ll get nothing; Connor’s just a guy who works at a convenience store. But he’s got two brothers, presumably with the same last name, and maybe one of those has made ripples before. Hank knows he has to give a little to get a little, and Jeffrey’s not about to backmail Connor over this, anyway. He hopes not.

Even as he asks the question his mind wants to reel back. This is Connor he’s talking about: The sweet man who loves his dog, enjoys coffee dates, and sings worse than Hank. A wonderful person, and one who doesn’t seem to have enough of a social life to make an impact on anything like vampire politics.

Jeffrey opens his mouth, then closes it, raising a finger. “Why?” he asks, opening a drawer in his desk and shuffling about the folders there. Something small in the drawer makes a clunking noise and he curses under his breath, shoving whatever it is aside in his search.

“I’ve done some thinking, that’s why.”

“Is this someone you know, or know about?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not an answer.” Jeffrey finds the notepad he’s looking for and flips through the pages. The handwriting is a messy cursive that Hank somehow learned to read back in the academy and the pages are stained and smudged with coffee and ink. “Is it someone important?”

“Do you just have a stash of files on vampires and shit? Got any notes on whatever else is out there? Sirens? Ghosts?”

Jeffrey finishes leafing through the pages and levels him with a stare, looking over the top of the notepad. That look usually means he’s done with Hank’s teasing and Hank had better get on with it before he gets kicked out.

“He’s a friend of mine,” Hank grumbles.

“You’re being nosy instead of just talking to him?”

“If he’s not a--a vampire, then asking him about his coven or whatever would get awkward real fast. If he is, then…” Hank raises his hands helplessly. “How do I know he’s not part of some cult that eats humans?”

“God, I do not want to see any cannibal cults in my lifetime.” Jeffrey sets the notepad flat on his desk. “Now, I’m not usually looped into supernatural politics, but I did get a list from the Kamski coven a couple years ago. Hasn’t been useful so far, so I don’t know if they were full of shit, but I don’t know how patient these guys can get, what with the immortal lifespan.”

Hank leans forward. “What’s the list?”

“Rogues that split from the Kamskis. They wanted me on alert in case we got any vamp crimes, saying they’d be unstable. Angry. They wanted to disrupt the peace or something like that.” Jeffrey shrugs. “I don’t know about other precincts, but I haven’t heard of anything like that until yesterday’s case. There’s three Arkaits on this list.” He lifts his gaze to look at Hank. “One of them allegedly did a stint as the Sterns’ hitman.”

“A hitman?” Hank’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wouldn’t that be an admission of their own crimes?”

“Not if it was decades ago and in another state. They’ve all gotten new legal identities since then; it’s in vampire hands now. But they thought it was relevant enough to mention, so I’d bet one or all of these boys were involved in some illicit or illegal work after that. Assuming, of course, that this information is good.”

Hank takes a slow drink from his coffee. “Honestly, I can’t say I’m surprised vampires are committing crimes. Which one’s the dangerous one?”

“All of them,” Jeffrey says. “Any vampire could drain you with a single bite.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Connor Arkait, but I’d be damn careful with any of them if I were you. I mean it, Hank. It’s one thing to have a vamp on the force, someone that we know and trust. It’s another to have an unknown like one of these. You’d be better off leaving them to skulk in the night than meddling in their business.”

Hank smiles thinly and stands. “I’ll take that under consideration.”

“Like hell you will. Just be careful,” Jeffrey says, returning the notepad to its hiding place. “I don’t want to find the husk of your body somewhere because you pissed off the wrong guy--Arkait or coven.”

“Fine. I’ll put some effort into staying alive. Thanks for all the info, anyway,” Hank says, exiting the office.

He’s gotten the confirmation he wanted: There’s no doubt that Connor’s a vampire, and he thinks he may have an idea of where Connor is socially. Somewhat. He doesn’t understand covens or whatever hierarchy there may be, but the triplets could be out on their own, living away from other vampires. Sort of like normal people. Maybe they’ve even got their own new coven, the people on that list banding together because there’s safety in numbers, or simply because it’s best to stick together and support each other, especially in a world that’s not supposed to know people like them exist.

The dread and wonder in his brain fall to the background as curiosity takes over, all his thoughts and questions jumbling in his head. They keep him thinking all day as he works normal, human homicide cases, and even as he drives home he continues mulling over what all this means.

The conclusion he reaches at the end of every train of thought is that the only good way to approach this is to ask Connor directly. He doesn’t want to; it seems invasive, and part of him feels ashamed of being so far out of the know, especially with something that impacts his job. He’s worried that what Jeffrey said might be true. He could go on pretending that Connor’s human, as Connor’s been happy to do so far, but he’d do a shit job at pretending he doesn’t know. He can only hold a poker face so long.

When Hank gets home, he texts Connor to invite him over for Christmas Eve. It’s a week away--next Friday--but it should give him some time to sort out his thoughts and what he wants to ask. Another thought hits him on the tail end of that one: He needs to get Connor a Christmas gift.

He sighs and makes a mental note to go shopping tomorrow, and hopes he’ll still have a boyfriend by Christmas day.

* * *

“So my landlord won’t allow pets,” Connor says once he’s settled at the dining table at Hank’s place, “and that’s really throwing a wrench in my plans for a snail tank.”

“Yeah?” Hank glances back from where he’s dicing vegetables in the kitchen. “I had a roommate once with a pet ferret. He’d hide the cage in the bathroom when inspections came around.”

“It’s the principle of it. What kind of place won’t let you have fish? Snails? They won’t even let me have an ant farm. I asked.”

“I think that last one’s fair.”

“You’re no fun.”

It’s Christmas Eve and Connor made sure to stop by as early as possible to make the most of it, knocking on Hank’s door only minutes after Hank arrived home himself, bringing two coffees from one of the few places he could find that were still open by late afternoon. They debated getting takeout, but Hank insisted on making curry for dinner, a Christmas Eve tradition started by his aunt sometime before he was even born. He sips at his coffee while prepping the meal and Connor sits at the table with his own drink, watching Hank work and making no effort to hide his stare. It’s not the first time Hank’s cooked for them both, and Connor’s learned to keep out of his way so neither of them get stressed over kitchen space. Both of them are wearing sweaters in different shades of red, which Connor thinks is awfully cutesy of them, and he thinks it would have been even neater if he had worn a green sweater. Unfortunately, his closet is lacking in half the colors of the rainbow, green among them.

Connor’s overnight bag sits by the couch, ready with pajamas, a change of clothes, and a gift hidden beneath them. He didn’t want to presume he’d be invited to stay overnight despite the implied invite the other week--and he knows Hank hasn’t celebrated Christmas since his son passed--but he’s always been welcome before. He hopes he’ll get the chance to sleep in if so, but he made sure to drink yesterday so he wouldn’t be too tired to wake up early. At least it’s forecast to remain cloudy and snowy all weekend.

It’s cozy here. His own apartment doesn’t feel empty, but it feels less lived-in. There’s a couple of wintry trinkets dotting the living area, but his brothers have no reason to go further than that. Hank, on the other hand, has a whole Christmas tree set up in the living room, complete with sparkling lights and two sets of ornaments. There are a couple of unique or handmade ones, too; Connor doesn’t want to pry, but he does plan to take a closer look at them when he gets the chance. It’s a far cry from the neat, picture-perfect trees he’s had for the past however many decades, with its mismatched lights--a string of rainbow, one of white, and a third made up of tiny lit-up robots--and the imperfectly placed tinsel. The place smells of pine from the tree and cinnamon from a candle.

“Garlic okay?” Hank asks from the kitchen, holding up a jar of minced garlic. He looks good in an apron, even a gaudy Christmas one.

“Sure. Whatever your recipe calls for.”

“How about onions?”

Connor laughs. “I have breath mints, Hank. It’s fine.”

“Is mustard alright?”

“You’re putting mustard in a curry?” Connor looks at him dubiously. Granted, he’s never made a curry himself, but he doesn’t think mustard is usually involved.

“Just a little bit.” Hank raises a small tin of mustard powder.

“I don’t have any food allergies. I would’ve told you if I did, so don’t worry about it.” Connor drinks down some more of his coffee. His body’s going to give him hell tonight, but it’ll be worth it. This intimacy and normalcy with his boyfriend is more than worth it. He can’t help the grin that crosses his face every time he thinks of that: boyfriend. A guy who wants to love him, cook for him, and make him feel warm and safe. “Do you have any?”

“Pretty sure I can’t eat anything green.”

“Do you need my help throwing out the parsley and cilantro? Or that pack of green Peeps?”

Hank shakes his head and Connor catches a glimpse of his smile as he turns back to chopping. “I’ve got a citrus allergy. It’s mild, so I just deal with the sniffles whenever I want tacos or anything orange.”

“That sounds profoundly irresponsible,” Connor says.

“Have I ever been a responsible man?”

“You owe it to yourself to be.”

“Yeah, well.” Hank scrapes the onion, garlic, and peppers into the pot, watching over them as they sizzle in the butter. After a couple of minutes, he says, “I’ve got a fancy set of actual silver silverware I could break out tonight.”

The suggestion makes Connor’s skin prickle. “I might be allergic to silver,” he admits. Last time he dealt with silver, his hand, along with part of his arm, was burned for a couple of weeks. “I mean, with my sensitive skin, it’s not unusual, you know? Normal silverware’s fine.”

“Huh.”

Silence sits comfortably between them while Hank cooks, tossing more ingredients into the pot and starting the rice cooker. Sumo meanders by and convinces Connor to fuss over him for a few minutes. By the time Hank’s set the food to simmer and joins Connor at the table, both their coffees are finished and Sumo’s settled on the sofa, snoring quietly. Snowflakes fall softly in the dark outside the window, lit by the strings of lights Hank put up around his house.

Connor takes Hank’s hand and kisses his cheek. “You doing alright?” he asks quietly. It’s subtle, but he’s been seeing hints that Hank’s on edge all evening and he wonders if it has anything to do with the stress of the season or work.

“I’m fine. I just, uh... “ Hank clears his throat. “Look, I think there’s something we need to talk about.”

Connor’s grip tightens and his mind jumps to the worst, worrying that they’re going to break up or that Hank secretly hates him. “Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.” Hank lets go of Connor’s hand and rubs the back of his own neck. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight,” he answers immediately. Every decade or so he gets a new ID, always keeping the birth year an even number for easy math. This time it’s 2010. “Are you concerned about our age difference?”

“How long have you been twenty-eight?”

Connor blinks at him slowly, caught off-guard. It takes him a moment to place the line. “Are you quoting _Twilight_ at me?”

“I… Shit.” Hank looks as surprised as he is. “God. I forgot where that was from.”

“I’ve been twenty-eight for about four months now.”

Hank studies his face. “Legally?”

“Yeah. Legally.” Everything strange about tonight is finally sinking in: Hank’s nerves, the food questions, even the suggestion for silver cutlery. “Legally, everyone’s a given age for only a year or less.”

“Right. Of course.”

“Hank.” Connor reaches for his hand again with both of his and Hank lets him. “What’s up?”

“I think you already know what’s up.” His face is close. It feels intimate, like they’re having a moment, only it’s not a very good or comfortable moment.

Connor swallows. He wants Hank to say it out loud. “I don’t know what you know.”

“And I’m not sure I know anything about you.” The words are bitter and Connor has to keep himself from flinching. “Why don’t we start there? Who are you, Connor?”

Who. He didn’t ask what; he asked who. “You know me. I’m some guy who works night shift and lives in an apartment I share with my brothers. I study marine biology in my free time and I’ve got a boyfriend who cares about me. At least, I think he does.”

“And you’re not twenty-eight years old.”

“I’m not.” He leans back in his chair, still holding Hank’s warm hand in one of his. “Technically, I’m thirty-three.”

Hank tilts his head and raises his eyebrows as if to say _‘really,’_ and Connor sighs.

“One hundred and ninety three,” he says, and Hank’s eyebrows keep going up.

“You’re seriously a hundred and ninety three years old,” Hank says. “That’s… 1845?”

Connor nods. He’s suddenly self-conscious about his teeth. “Is that a problem?” he asks, as if his vampirism isn’t the strange part.

“I wasn’t expecting to be the younger one in this relationship.”

Connor grins, but it fades with the weight of the conversation. “I don’t know when I would have told you. We’ve known each other less than a year. I should’ve guessed you would figure it out yourself.”

“I didn’t. I mean.” Hank runs a hand through his hair. “There was a case at work. Once my eyes were opened, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”

“Is what I am going to be a problem?”

“I don’t want it to be.” He hesitates. “I’m gonna be honest, I don’t really know shit about vampires. I don’t know, like, how you eat--feed, whatever. If you’ve ever killed anyone.”

Connor looks away, withdrawing his hand. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of,” he says. “I’ve left that life. Are you familiar with covens?”

“Not really.”

“We stick together, like one big family. Or a business, or something like that. Everyone does their part so the group can thrive, and orders come from the top. If someone tells you to keep someone quiet, you do it, no questions asked.” He turns back to face Hank again, taking in a deep breath. “A few of us left our last coven to make a new one, led by Markus. No killing, except in self-defense. No live feeding or kidnapping. No trafficking or stealing to make money. The only thing we take is blood bags, and that’s a necessity.”

“Are those things the Kamskis do?”

That’s not a name he expected to hear. “You know more than you let on,” Connor says.

“Barely. Like I said, something came up at work.”

“The law doesn’t mess with the covens. It gives the older ones a lot of leeway. The rest of us have to try not to catch their attention. Our coven--the Manfred coven--has only managed to avoid getting killed because there’s more than a few of us. It wouldn’t go unnoticed.”

“That sounds shitty,” Hank says. He reaches up to cup Connor’s cheek. “I still don’t know what to think about all this, but I’ve had a week to try and absorb the fact that you’re a vampire. And… I think I might be okay with it.”

Some of the tension releases from Connor’s shoulders. “Are you sure?” he asks, searching the familiar blue of Hank’s eyes. “I don’t want you to say that if it’s not true.”

“I want to try, that much I’m sure about. This is still a lot.” Hank rubs his thumb along Connor’s cheek and Connor leans into his touch. “I want to get to know you better. Not to judge whether I’m comfortable with you or not, but to understand everything about you. I don’t think I’m going to stop liking you just because you’re a vampire. The rest of it, that’s something else, but I like to think people can change.”

“I hope I have.” Connor sighs with relief. “You’re taking this really well.”

“I kind of feel like a dick for offering you silver, now. That’s a vampire thing, right? Not a you thing?”

“Yeah. And for other people like us. Werewolves and anything else. The supernatural catch-all.” Connor kisses the palm of Hank’s hand, then Hank pulls him into a hug, holding tightly and rubbing his back. “If it makes you feel any better, you’re doing way better than my husband did. He threw a cross at me.”

Hank’s hand stills. “What?”

“I don’t know what he expected that to do. I mean, I was Catholic.”

“That’s rude and all, but,” Hank says, pulling back to look Connor in the face, “your husband?”

“I thought it would be courteous to inform him of my death.”

“Not your ex-husband.”

“We never divorced,” Connor says. An old sadness wells up within him, mixed with fondness, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he had more than just a couple photos and a ring to remember the other man by. “It was an arranged marriage; I barely knew him at first. Jean came around eventually. We were close friends for most of our time together, and we kept in touch after I moved with my coven. He didn’t mind that I turned out to be a man after we married, either. It was just the vampirism that threw him off.”

“Seems like the sort of thing you’d know before marrying someone.”

“I wasn’t a vampire at the time,” Connor says, raising his eyebrows.

“Where’d you live that they arranged marriages between two men?”

“Virginia. They didn’t know I was anything but a woman,” Connor says. “I knew I was a man, but that’s not something I could just tell people. I lived dual lives as a man and a woman, living in different circles until some years after I turned, when we put out the rumor that Jean’s wife mysteriously went missing.” Connor shrugs. “Not that all of the coven approved of my transition, but given that they drank human blood, they didn’t have much of a leg to stand on. ”

“Oh. Well. Thanks for telling me. Everything, I mean,” Hank says. He squeezes Connor’s shoulder, then pushes his chair back and returns to the kitchen to check on the food, stirring it slowly. “Supposedly, you’re dangerous.”

“Anyone has the potential to be.” Connor taps a quiet rhythm onto the table. “You’re talking about what the Kamskis said about me, right?”

“Yeah. You said you left that life.”

Connor sighs. “The old covens like control. They want to stay powerful. Designating a guard dog to sniff out and eliminate potential threats and turncoats is a natural part of that. Everything from vampires plotting coups to mortals who hear the wrong thing. It’s cutthroat.”

“Like some sort of gang.”

“Something like that. There’s blood on my hands. I was good at my job. I won’t say I regret every life I took or damaged, but I regret that I was their tool for so long. That I let myself do those things.”

Hank stirs the pot slowly, not turning around just yet. “How long?”

“Over a century. I was loyal.” He takes a deep breath and tries to keep his voice from shaking. “I understand if you want me to leave.”

“No,” Hank says. “Stay. You said you’ve got a new coven now. That means people who trust and like you, right?”

“The people of this coven do. They still have their reservations, but they understand.”

“Then I’m gonna be honest: I think it’s fucked up that you’re--you were--some sort of vampire assassin. But I don’t have an ounce of perspective on that from a ten-minute conversation.” Hank points the spoon his way, drops of sauce dripping onto the floor. “It’s something we’re going to have to talk about, but I still want to know you. The Connor that you are today, not ten years ago and not one hundred years ago.”

Connor nods, letting his tapping cease. “Thank you for giving me a chance,” he says. God knows he doesn’t deserve it, but he wants it.

“This isn’t some sort of verbal gauntlet, Connor.” Hank’s voice softens. “I want to know you better, both you and the vampire bits of you. That’s not all going to come in one day. On that note, is the garlic thing just a myth? And--actually, does food do anything for you?”

Connor picks at the cardboard sleeve on his empty cup. “Vervain, juniper, and silver are real sensitivities,” he says. “Alliums aren’t. We don’t need food, but I like it. The only problem is my digestive system doesn’t work the same anymore.”

“It makes you sick, you mean.”

He shrugs. “It’s unpleasant, but it can’t kill me.”

Hank leans back against the counter and crosses his arms. “Does this change anything?” he asks. “Is your coven going to impact us? Do they care that we’re dating? Do you want to drink my blood or turn me into a vampire or something?”

“I always want to drink your blood,” Connor blurts out. He lets go of his cup and slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “I mean--just--I think you’d taste really good. You smell good. Like bacon? No, not bacon.” He shakes both his hands in a negative gesture. “You’re not food! I don’t want you to be food. I wouldn’t ask you to do that. It wouldn’t kill you if I did, but no. I’m not.”

“Huh.” Hank nods thoughtfully. “But you’d like it. Right now you’re, what, vegetarian?”

“Hank.” Connor pouts. “Blood isn’t vegetarian. I don’t care what _Twilight_ says.”

“Semantics.” Hank waves a hand. “I’m not offering, by the way. Just curious.”

“Right. No, I don’t plan to drink from you or turn you.” Connor furrows his eyebrows with a frown. “I have the ability to turn you, but you should have the option to make that choice yourself.”

“Did you?”

“No.” Connor looks away, once more picking at the cardboard sleeve. “This doesn’t have to change anything between us. It means I can be more open and honest with you, but I’m still going to be happy meeting you in the middle of the day, and eating, and whatever else we decide we want to do. If I’m not thirsty,” he amends, raising a finger. “Everything human gets worse when I am, and apparently, I get grouchy on top of that.”

“I can work with that.” Hank pushes himself off the counter and heads past him towards the living room, where he nudges Sumo off the couch. “C’mon, boy, down. You shouldn’t be on there anyway.”

“You never make an effort to keep him off,” Connor notes, following and sitting beside Hank. Sumo settles down at their feet, resting his chin on top of Connor’s socks.

“Upholstery’s replaceable,” Hank says. He drapes an arm over Connor’s shoulders, pulling him close and kissing his cheek. “Are we good? I’m not bothering you too much yet?”

“I should be the one asking you that.” Connor slouches in the seat so he can comfortably rest his head against Hank’s shoulder. Hank feels and smells so human, this close, and he feels welcomed like this. “I guess there’s some good news here.”

“Not that you being a vampire is necessarily bad news, but what’s that?”

“I don’t need to get tested for sleep apnea.”

Hank laughs, the loud sound startling Sumo and making Connor grin. “I was kind of in denial at that point. You didn’t even have a goddamn pulse.”

Connor mouths a silent _‘oh.’_ “I wondered why you were so freaked out. I understand that might have been concerning.”

Hank cards his fingers through Connor’s hair, slow and tender. “Can I ask you another question?”

“If you ask if I sparkle, I’m leaving,” Connor mumbles into Hank’s sweater.

“Will you stay the night?”

Connor smiles. “I’d love to,” he says. “I might not wake up until late afternoon.”

“I could do with sleeping in, too.” Hank pauses. “You know, you don’t have to stay on the couch.”

Excitement and warmth rush through Connor and he leans back enough to see Hank’s face. “Are you sure? I sleep like the dead, Hank. Literally. It’ll be like waking up next to a corpse.”

“I’ll get used to it,” Hank says. Connor can’t help the dopey grin that grows on his face at the implication that there will be a next time. “But would it bother you if I woke you up to make sure you’re alright?”

“I’d rather not, but it’s fine. As long as you keep the curtains closed.”

“Can do.” Hank hugs him and Connor rests his head against Hank’s chest, listening to his vibrant heartbeat. It thumps in his ear like a drum calling him home. “Your brothers aren’t gonna get pissed at me, are they?”

“Not for knowing about us.” Connor closes his eyes, basking in Hank’s company. “Not for being my boyfriend. Nines might feel affronted that you’ve never introduced him to Sumo.”

“He can drag his ass over here if he wants to see my dog.”

“I’ll make sure to extend the invitation.”

The two of them remain there together, cuddling until Connor drifts off and Hank needs to visit the bathroom. Connor wakes up just in time to grab a small bowl of curry before it’s put away, shoveling it in his mouth over the span of a few minutes and declaring it perfect, and then they return to the couch to watch a Christmas movie, the only lights around them from the tree and the television.

Hank turns in a couple hours before Connor does, leaving Connor curled up with a sci fi book from Hank’s collection, his keen eyes not needing even the lights from the tree for reading. He leaves them on anyway, feeling like they bring a spark of seasonal magic to the room. He switches between reading the book and messaging his coven group chat, where he lets them know he’s staying the night (earning a congratulations from Markus and a disappointed emoji from North) and that Nines is invited to meet Sumo when he gets the chance (to which Silas also invites himself).

It feels like his life’s going in the right direction for once. He isn’t bouncing between the two extremes of being hounded on or dismissed by Elijah or Amanda, he isn’t feeding on captives held by their coven, and nobody expects to hand him a contract and have someone killed without their lifting a finger. Markus guides them as safely and peacefully as he can while they decide what path they want to take. Now he’s got a boyfriend, one he doesn’t have to hide anything from anymore and who doesn’t look at him as a monster despite him fitting into that category quite literally.

He sits in the dim living room with the lights of the tree sparkling nearby and he feels at peace.

* * *

Hank wakes the next day to find Connor beside him. He doesn’t recall waking when Connor joined him, but now he’s here, Hank’s arms curling around Connor and holding him close to his chest, tangled and wrapped around him like some sort of clingy octopus. It’s a type of intimacy Hank hasn’t had in years and suddenly he misses it, waking up every day with someone else at his side, nothing else in the world but the two of them and the sunlight peeking through the curtains.

By the angle of the beam of light shining into the room, it must be well into the day already. He buries his nose in Connor’s hair and closes his eyes, taking a few more minutes to enjoy the sleepy atmosphere. He holds Connor as long as he can, but it isn’t long before he starts to become restless. The alien details of Connor start to unnerve him--his cool body and the complete lack of breath or pulse--and he can feel hunger start to gnaw at his stomach. It’s been a long time since dinner.

Despite his instincts telling him he needs to make sure Connor’s okay, he doesn’t wake him. Instead, he gives Connor a peck on the cheek before slipping out of bed. They’re dating now, officially, and it feels like it could be too much too fast, but he can see Connor’s bashful smile in his mind’s eye, even though his face now is slack and a sleep mask covers his eyes. He wonders if vampires dream.

He makes coffee and lets Sumo out, then grabs two wrapped gifts from one of the cupboards and sets them under the tree, chuckling when he notices there’s already a gift there from Connor, something large and soft wrapped in gold-and-red wrapping paper with _Hank_ written in neat handwriting on top. The tree looks too empty with only the three gifts beneath it, fewer than Hank’s ever had under a tree, but it’s fuller than his house has felt in a long time.

Last year he didn’t do much more than oversleep and mindlessly play some MMO. Hell, Jeffrey made a point to stop by with a casserole and an action movie, taking time out of his own day to make sure Hank wasn’t hurting himself. Partly to express well-wishes and partly to avoid a repeat occurrence this year while his boyfriend’s over, Hank sends him a selfie of himself with an arm around Sumo and the tree in the background and a “Merry Christmas,” then digs through his fridge for leftovers to eat.

It’s a couple more hours before Connor wakes up, which Hank is alerted to by an alarm and a subsequent groan sounding from the bedroom. He watches Sumo bound past the sofa while he stays seated in front of the TV, watching a Christmas movie and sipping a homemade mocha. Connor plods out about ten minutes later, dressed in a green sweater and jeans and with his hair not as tame as it normally is. Sumo follows right beside him, pressed up against his leg.

Connor pauses beside the couch, looking at a window with a pinched expression before looking down at Hank. “Mind if I close the curtains?”

“Go ahead,” Hank says. “I should’ve thought about that.”

Connor makes his way around the house, closing all the curtains. “It’s not unbearable, but the sun does hurt. Not that I’ll combust into ash or anything.”

“Noted. Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”

“I’ve assaulted my stomach enough this week.” He still ponders the coffee pot as he passes by it, no doubt running a cost-benefit analysis in his head, but he foregoes a drink, settling down beside Hank empty-handed. Connor hesitates, then scoots a couple inches closer and laces his fingers with Hank’s free hand. “What are you watching?”

“I couldn’t tell you the title. Doesn’t matter, anyway. I’ve got a list of gay movies queued up on my tablet. Wanna open presents first?”

Connor glances towards the tree, his face lighting up when his eyes land on the green-wrapped gifts Hank left there for him. “Just because they’re gay doesn’t make them any less cheesy.”

“Yeah, but if I’m going to watch cheesy Christmas movies, I’d rather they be gay. I mean, we went how long without those?” Hank says.

“I was older than you are now when I saw my first movie of any kind. You’ve got it pretty good.”

“Yep. We’ve got movies with straight Santa, lesbian Santa, leather daddy Santa…”

“Any vampire Santas?” Connor asks.

“Good question.” Hank sets his coffee on the coffee table. “Do you ever watch vampire movies and make fun of the shit they get wrong?”

“Not recently.” Connor grins, and Hank notices his fangs pressing against his lower lip, something he never paid attention to before. “It’s a lot more fun when you know an actor or director is in the know, and you can just tell how much fun they had working on something like that.”

“Christ. I never thought of vampire movies having, you know, actual vampires.” Hank shakes his head, then stands. “Come on, let’s open the gifts already. I’m sure you’re dying of anticipation.”

“Let’s. Dying once was enough for me.”

Hank glances at Connor’s face to see that his grin hasn’t faded. Good. He’d hate to feel bad for a slip of the tongue, but if he had to guess, he’d say Connor probably doesn’t feel torn up over jokes about death and dying. He makes a note to clarify that later.

The two of them sit by the tree. Sumo settles down next to Hank, his tail whacking loudly against the carpet every few seconds, and Hank can’t help but give him some affection, cooing at him and scratching behind his ears. When he finally turns back to Connor, the other man has an adoring look on his face that fills Hank with warmth.

He grabs one of the gifts and slides it over to Connor. “Merry Christmas, Connor.”

Connor picks at the wrapping paper meticulously, an effort he really shouldn’t go to given that Hank isn’t great at wrapping gifts in the first place, and reveals the new scarf inside. The yarn is soft, making it cozy without being bulky, and it’s a shade of pear green that Hank has always liked. Bright, but not as eye-searing as lime green.

Connor looks it over, feeling and inspecting it before wrapping it around his neck. It looks good on him, like he just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. “This might be the brightest thing I own,” he says, one hand still feeling the material. “I love it.”

“I know it’s not really your color, but I figured it wouldn’t clash with your coat.”

“It would be perfect even if it did.” The large gift is nudged in Hank’s direction. “Your turn.”

“God, how long’s it been since I last opened a Christmas gift?” Hank wonders aloud. He makes an effort to show some of the same care Connor did, but gives up on that endeavor quickly once he accidentally rips the paper anyway and tears the rest of it off.

It’s a dark brown leather coat with a navy blue lining on the inside. It looks similar to his current one but of higher quality, with no loose stitches and leather that feels and smells exactly as it should be. The brand name catches his eye and he chokes. “Connor, what…”

“I wanted to get you something nice.” Connor shushes Hank as he tries to speak. “You deserve something nice. You go out in the cold a lot with your job, you should have a coat that’s not worn down. If you want it.”

He has a point. Hank’s coat is thinning in some spots and has a hole on the outside of one of the pockets. It’s serviceable and comfortable, but he knows he’s overdue for a new one. “It’s really nice,” Hank says, checking where all the pockets are. “I shouldn’t be surprised you figured out my size.”

“I measured your coat while you were sleeping,” Connor admits with a sheepish smile. “I wanted it to be perfect.”

Hank folds the coat carefully, setting it aside and giving Sumo a stern look. “Don’t drool on it,” he says, then takes the last gift, holding it up. “Now I’m gonna feel bad for not getting you name brand shit.”

Connor takes it. “I can withstand plenty of weather. I don’t mind the cold, by the way. I just like to be warm. You, on the other hand, can fall ill and get frostbite, so you need something good.”

“And if I wanted to get you a name brand coat?”

“My coat works fine,” Connor says, unwrapping his second gift. “But if you wanted to get me a name brand anything, I’d better look good in it. You could start with Tiffany’s.”

Hank hums thoughtfully. “Claire’s it is.”

“Hank.” Connor pouts, but it disappears quickly as he reveals his second gift: A beanie with fish embroidered along the bottom. He grins wryly at Hank. “Am I that cold?”

“To be honest, I thought you just had poor circulation.”

Connor laughs. “That’s fair,” he says, running a thumb over the embroidery. They’ve never visited the aquarium together, but Hank made sure to dip into the gift shop and find something. Between Connor’s studies and the fact that his lock screen rotates between pictures of sea life, it’s clear how much he loves these animals. Hank wonders if he’s going to make any plans to work with them firsthand, and what it might entail to get the training and certifications, practically and legally. He wonders, too, if Connor could go underwater for hours without rising for air. Could there be entire covens living underwater? It’s an unnerving thought.

He’s interrupted from his thoughts by Connor pulling him in for a kiss. “Merry Christmas, Hank,” Connor says, his lips soft against Hank’s. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Hank says, wrapping his arms around Connor like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“For everything.” Connor hugs him back, resting his chin on Hank’s shoulder. “For setting up Christmas and for listening to me. For sharing your home with me today.”

“I’ll share my home with you any day. It wouldn’t feel like home without you,” he says, and it’s a sentiment he feels in his heart. As cool as Connor feels in his arms, he’s only ever made Hank’s house warmer and brighter, and he dearly hopes that will remain the case for months--maybe years--to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Have a wonderful new year!

**Author's Note:**

> You can find myself and the artist on twitter as @gildedfrost (18+) and @chromaberrant


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